


Do What Feels Good

by Catchclaw, cymbalism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, First Time, Hand Jobs, Human Castiel, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Oral Sex, Pining Dean, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 09, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Tattooed Castiel, Tattoos, Wet Clothing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel learns to love alone time in the shower. And then he learns to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> We had a hankering for some shower smut, so we wrote some. You’re welcome.
> 
> Early season 9 AU (aka there’s no such thing as Ezekiel and Sam’s A-OK).
> 
> Inspired by [[x](http://mallotovcocktail.tumblr.com/post/81356394644/)]. Egged on by [[x](http://mooseleys.tumblr.com/post/86370751993)]. And [[x](http://castiels-dean.tumblr.com/post/82853454005)] didn't hurt, either.
> 
> And to help you enjoy our meditation on the shower theme, may we also offer our [soundtrack](http://8tracks.com/catchclaw/do-what-feels-good) for the fic.

* * *

  
Castiel didn't know it would be like this. Warm and wet. And good. So good, to be surrounded by slick and heat. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. He's cradled here, caressed. Every human tension easing out of his muscles as the water sluices over his shoulders, down his back, wraps around his legs as it pours toward the drain.

There is so much about being human that Castiel finds confusing. Without the buffer of his grace, the world is too full of commotion: people breathing and people talking, the din of traffic and the stench of city sidewalks. All of it strains his newly minted senses in ways that he finds overwhelming. Even the thrum of his own heart, of his own thoughts, is sometimes too much to bear.

Living with the Winchesters, therefore, in their Men of Letters lair, is both a respite and a trial. The bunker offers a reprieve from the noisy public sphere, and it’s far superior to the streets that Dean retrieved him from. And Castiel is grateful, he is, for Dean coming to his aid on the strength of nothing more than a phone call. 

But occasionally the close quarters of this place exacerbate his sense of too loud, too many, too much. It’s not Dean’s fault, or Sam’s. For them, these everyday interactions—the clatter of Dean’s boots on the stairs, Sam’s calisthenics, the simple logistics of humanity—are utterly routine. But for Castiel, they are still blindingly new, and there are times, he finds, when he needs a place to hide.

He arches under the water, letting it fall in fat waves down his chest, his soapy hands trailing absently behind. Curls of shampoo snake down his hips and tumble to white caps at his feet. 

His first shower here, the first time he closed the curtain and turned himself over to the water, Castiel was desperate to be clean, to scrub away the dirt ground into his skin, dirt he could suddenly _feel_ , uneasy and immediate, outside the shelter of his grace. Even when his hands, his legs and his elbows, even when they looked clean, he was certain the grime was still there, was sure he could feel it burrowing into his pores. He’d stayed in the steam a long time (much longer, he knows now, than was strictly necessary) but it soothed him, the kind of quiet he found there. And now, when his humanity is too much, too loud, the shower is his favorite space for respite.

Its pleasures are simple, straightforward. And yet, when he closes his eyes and tips his face up to the spray, wholly immersive. When he’s here, he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing except the water beating into his body and the stress of this new existence falling inexorably away. 

As a human might say, this is heaven.

He turns his back to the taps and leans over, one hand on the tile as the water pounds into his back. It’s so hot and so hard that it draws sounds from him, soft little noises at the back of his throat. The water holds him steady, allows him to be still, and in a moment there’s nothing but pleasure rolling deep under his skin.

But then the rolling crashes over something new. Unfamiliar. It’s a tug in his groin, a shot of heat in his hips, it’s—

He peers down his body, water falling from his face.

It's his cock, flushed and fattening under the deluge. Well.

There's no reason for surprise, Castiel thinks. This body—he—is human now, no question, and this is how genitalia are meant to react in certain biologically advantageous situations.

Which this, surely, is not. 

At least, he’d never have assumed so.

He spreads a wet hand wide and rests his palm over it, against it, his cock—a gesture it appears to appreciate, for it curves greedily to meet his touch, mindless. A swirl of delight chases through his blood as his fingers trace over the head, under the lip of the crown, and— 

_Oh_ , he jolts. That feels—

“Hey!” Dean shouts through the door. “Cas! You grow gills in there or something? Your waffles are getting cold.”

Castiel jumps, his hands falling into fists at his sides. 

“I— Just a minute, please,” he calls.

His stomach rumbles at the thought of food, of syrup and strawberries, and in a splash, his cock is all but forgotten.  


* * *

  
The second time it happens, it's not such a surprise.

He's scrubbing his hair, fingers full of soap that smells of pinecones, when he feels it: that sudden sense of weight in his cock. It sways under his stare, as though it’s as uncertain about the situation as he is.

But now Castiel is curious. 

He touches it, the same way he’d done before, a press of his palm, a nudge of his fingers at the base. This time the heat of it surprises him. His cock is warmer than the water, and than the rest of his body too. 

Touching himself like this isn’t uncomfortable or disagreeable, Castiel thinks. He rubs his thumb across the head. It’s soft and warmer still, this part of his cock. Almost hot. In theory, he understands that with some manipulation, some application of hand to flesh, like this, he could eradicate this problem. The shaft bumps the inside of his wrist as he turns his thumb again, and oh, there’s a sudden rumble of pleasure between his hips, a low-grade fever of feeling that’s sweet, somehow. Rich and deep.

His cock shivers, lurches in his hand as water falls over his fingers and onto the crown. And yet, he thinks vaguely, it’s difficult to conceive of how many of these touches he would need to translate this sensation—he cups his hand, lets the tip of his cock rest in his palm—into orgasm.

What would it take, he wonders, to make himself come?

Just the thought makes him harder, makes him ache, and, oh, isn’t that strange?

A sting of soap brings him back to himself, to the shampoo in his eyes and the hiss of the spray, and this isn’t, Castiel muses, a problem he is well equipped to address, human or not. 

It’s true his centuries spent garrisoned as a watchdog to humanity ensured an awareness of possible bodily pleasures. He learned of phallic humor from the Romans, and he knows the lack of a procreative act in the conception of Jesus is one of the strongest arguments for Christ’s divinity. But Castiel never sought carnal knowledge. It hadn’t seemed relevant.

His cock is disappointed when he drops it. Still, his erection endures, sitting smugly between his legs as he rinses off, as he climbs out of the tub, as he winds his way into his clothes.

Yes, he thinks, frowning, trying to zip his jeans around the persistent swell, there’s no question. His cock poses a problem.

But as he’s brushing his teeth, watching the steam streak in smears down the mirror, it hits him: he may not know how to solve the mystery of stubborn arousal, but surely he knows someone who must.

* *

Dean’s first reaction, however, is not encouraging.

He chokes on his coffee, in fact, coughing and pounding his chest a few times before he can speak. Sam, by comparison, is all throaty laughter, head thrown back and chest expanding. 

“Oh my God,” Dean wheezes. “Are we really having this conversation?”

Sam’s mouth dances in and out of a smile. “I think _you’re_ having this conversation,” he says, sliding out of his chair. He sweeps up his plate and tosses Castiel a little smirk as he beats a hasty retreat and that . . . was not a response Castiel had expected. 

He tilts his head, bewildered. “Did I say something wrong?” 

“No, Cas,” Dean says, still looking a little uneasy. ” No. It’s just— The five-knuckle shuffle isn’t exactly breakfast-table conversation. But,” he clears his throat and squares his shoulders, elbows landing on the tabletop with his hands, “Alright. Hit me.”

Castiel's confusion must show on his face because Dean huffs: “A _question_ , Cas. Your question. C’mon. Lay it on me. What d’you wanna know?”

But Castiel is still puzzled by Sam’s swift exit. “I don’t,” he starts, “Why did—? My understanding is that it’s only a biological reaction. Not something considered shameful.”

Dean hangs his head with a sigh. The tips of ears, Castiel notes, are now a bright shade of red. 

“You’re right,” Dean says, more to the tabletop than to Castiel. “But it’s also kind of a private process. Not something people talk about in groups. Or at all. So if you have some burning question—and please, God, let there not actually be burning sensations involved—you gotta ask me now, okay? Because the only kind of sex talk I’m interested in is the _during_ kind, if you know what I mean.” He looks up and the impish grin accompanying that last thought drops away. “Which, you don’t. So.” He raps the table with his knuckles. “Ask.”

Castiel considers. It surprises him how, considering his range of experience, Dean is markedly less willing to talk about sex, about the human body, than he’d anticipated. Perhaps these matters are not as simple to humans as he’d thought. He settles on the question that probably has the simplest answer. “When you experience arousal on your own," he says, "what’s the most efficient way to eradicate it?” 

Dean's eyes go comically wide before he rocks backward. “ _Eradicate_?” He flinches. “Okay, look, no. When you’re uh,” he gestures toward the table edge above Castiel’s lap, “when something like that comes up, you don’t think about _eradicating_ anything, okay? Or efficiency. You just gotta— Oh my God.” He stops, covers his face with his hands for a moment. “It’s about what feels good,” he says from between his fingers. “You do whatever feels good, for as long as it feels good, okay, until it feels _really_ good.”

Castiel frowns, annoyed. “It’s not as if I don’t understand the concept of orgasm. I only want to know the best strategy for achieving it on one’s own. It seems to be a problem that I need to know how to address.”

The flush of red on Dean’s neck shoots up so high it reaches his cheeks. “Right,” he says. “Yeah. You, you know,” he makes a horizontal motion with his hand cupped in loose C shape before self-consciously dropping it. “Just sort of touch— And, uh, think about—” 

His mouth twists and he looks away before his expression quickly switches to _harassed_. “Dude, look, if fourteen-year-olds everywhere can figure it out, so can you. It’s not like anybody’s gonna be looking over your shoulder and judging your style. Whatever you do is probably gonna feel awesome. Just go for it. Okay?”

It’s not as specific as Castiel had hoped, but if there isn’t one right way, he thinks, then so be it. “Okay," he says.

“Oh, thank God,” Dean sighs, sagging in what looks like relief. He gets to his feet and claps Castiel on the shoulder as he passes. “You'll be fine. Just— don't over think it.”

“Right,” Castiel nods, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. Because how does one do that, exactly? But when he looks back to ask, Dean is already gone.  


* * *

  
Perhaps it’s inevitable, then, that Castiel can’t stop thinking about not overthinking.

The next night, as he readies for bed, it's still disrupting his concentration, this paradox. He’s too unsettled to sleep, and the book in his hands feels like a burden rather than a delight. Restlessness crawls beneath his skin, an unfamiliar itch he’s not sure how to quiet. The more he considers the problem, rolls it over and back in his mind, the greater his agitation becomes. 

At this point, he thinks, whether or not he reaches a conclusion about Dean’s cryptic advice is inconsequential. He just longs to feel . . . not like this, ill at ease and unsatisfied. No. He yearns to be tranquil, at peace. A shower might help, he thinks. The warmth and rhythm might soothe whatever this irritation might be.

Yes. A shower to wash away his perturbation. And should he have the opportunity to put Dean’s advice to practical use, well, surely there’s no harm in that.

He listens for Dean in the next room, for the heavy and slow breaths that signal deep sleep—it would be inconsiderate to wake him.

He sets his book aside and slips out into the hall. Soft yellow light pools at the end of the corridor from the library, confirming that Sam is still deeply absorbed in his reading and unlikely to stir anytime soon. Good, Castiel thinks. No reason to disturb Sam, either.

He eases down the hall, away from the light, from Sam, and towards the bathroom. He closes the door quickly but quietly behind him, and leans on it in the dark for moment, surprised by the heavy, fast thump of his heart. Behind his back, he gives the lock tab a twist. Just . . . because. It seems a wise precaution.

There’s a tremor in his fingers as he reaches for the light switch, as he steps out of his clothes, as he adjusts the tap and tests the water. The restiveness made manifest. 

“Don’t over think it,” he whispers to himself and steps into the spray.

The water rolls over his shoulders, down his spine, a quick infusion of heat. He bows his head and lets it course through his hair and over his cheeks, lets it drizzle from his bottom lip as he takes slow, humid breaths.

Yes, he thinks, drowsy. This is much better.

He rolls his neck in a full circle, ending where he began, and blinks open his eyes. He is, he finds, staring down at his cock. 

It certainly isn’t averse to its present environment, wrapped in the warm, steady spray, but it— _he_ —isn’t wholly aroused, either. It’s merely . . . interested, as it had been the previous morning. An expected sort of weight, but one unlikely, he knows, to resolve itself on its own. 

Sam and Dean are occupied. The door is locked. _Do what feels good,_ Dean had said.

Castiel’s hands shake where they hang awkwardly by his side. Self-stimulation will be the best course. He knows this. It's what Dean had suggested, after all.

Still, he hesitates. Lifts his hand, slow. Brushes his fingertips over the head. A slight, simple touch. He does it again, bolder, catches the pads of his fingers on the curve and traces the shaft to the base, where it joins with his body. And up. It’s a strange sensation, something like delicate lightning, but not at all unpleasant. So he does it again. This time, he cups his hand so the shaft meets his palm and moves once more, down and up, and that is—

A little punch of sound falls over his lips.

Yes. Better than pleasant. Good. It’s very good. 

In his mind, he hears the hot curl of Dean’s voice again, _Just touch— think about—_

_Dean._

His cock moves at the thought, a hot jerk of its own accord that burns into Castiel’s hand. Interesting. 

Dean, he thinks again, deliberate, and the reaction is the same: a kick of pleasure in his mind that’s mirrored in his body, his cock, and he holds himself more firmly, rolls his hand from the head to his belly and back, faster now.

Yes. Very interesting.

He takes a deep breath, strokes himself once more, and in his mind Dean is nosing at the back of his neck, one arm curled around his chest as the other slips down his side, fingers tripping over his ribs and coming to rest just above Castiel's hip. Playing over his tattoo.

Oh, Castiel thinks, wild. That—that is a lovely idea, watching Dean touch him like that.

He imagines Dean biting gently at the top of his spine, curling his mouth around Castiel's neck and sucking, steady and slow.

Castiel's head snaps back, imagines that he’s pressing it into Dean's shoulder as Dean chuckles, spreading that warm honey sound all over Castiel's back. It makes Castiel’s fingers tighten, his wrist move faster, the feel of that sound in his skin. 

In his mind, Dean kisses his throat, tight little blooms that have Castiel's body arching, asking for more.

Dean's lips curve. _Mmmm_ , he says. _In a minute. Keep touching yourself._

Castiel twists, his cock leaping in his fist. "But," he pants, "Dean. Want you to—"

Dean makes that sound again: a low, contented hum. _I like it, Cas. Like watching you do this. Makin’ yourself crazy for me._ He shifts, tucks his chin into Castiel's shoulder and licks lazily at his ear. _C'mon, sweetheart. Wanna see you make yourself come._

"Oh," Castiel says aloud, a jolt of pleasure so fierce it’s almost pain. " _Oh._ " 

He slaps a hand to the wall, his palm slipping over the tiles as he strokes his cock, watches the head fall in and out of his fist as Dean nips at his jaw.

_God, yeah,_ Dean says, low and ragged. _Cas. Look at you._

Castiel moans, imagining he can feel Dean's breath over his cheek, can see those strong fingers gently petting at his tattoo, can feel Dean's cock pressed into the curve of his ass as they rock together.

In his mind, Dean’s grabbing at him, the water making it harder for him to hold on the faster Castiel jerks his cock, the louder his cries.

_Yeah,_ Dean says. _Like that. Gonna be so pretty when you come, baby. Gonna feel so good, huh? God, makes me so hot, watching you do this. You like it? You like touching yourself for me?_

"Yes!" Castiel cries with his whole body, his being. "Oh God yes, Dean."

Words fall to pieces in his mouth, ripped apart by a deep groan of satisfaction as he comes, his cock leaping as he thinks _Dean Dean Dean._

He breathes deep, drawing the steam into his lungs once and again, steadying himself, and in his mind, he feels Dean’s smile tucked into his cheek, those beautiful hands rubbing soft circles on his skin.

“Yes,” Castiel whispers, hiding his voice in the fall of the water. “That felt—really good.”  


* * *

  
After that night, there’s a whole new kind of pleasure associated with the wet heat of the shower for Castiel. One he’s developed a small habit of indulging in.

But this morning, today, he’d kept it relatively brief, because Dean has been—as Sam put it— _giving Cas crap_ about his extended showers, muttering about how he’s lucky they don’t pay water bills and threatening that the city will notice conspicuous water usage if he doesn’t knock it off.

So Castiel complies, most days. The days when Dean is in residence rather than on the road. But when his showers are short, like this morning, he turns the heat up to stinging, as fevered as he can stand, to compensate for the time lost reveling in it—his own small form of rebellion. 

Despite the brevity of his shower, it’s pleasantly steamy when he steps from the tub, the humid air warm in his lungs as he snags his towel and shakes the excess water from his hair. The mirror over the sink is lost in the fog, so he swipes a hand over the glass to see his blurry reflection blinks back at him, blue eyes gone soft in the heat.

He watches himself as his movements become efficient, clipped. He runs the towel over his chest, then his shoulders, tipping his chin this way and that to gauge the necessity of shaving. He would prefer not to, if it’s not required, since even the wet/dry electric razor Dean provided him with often leaves an unhappy itch in its wake.

No, he thinks absently. Not today. He should get dressed.

In the mirror, his hands are still moving, still working to get himself dry. He watches the towel pass over his groin, around one thigh, and—

Another idea occurs to him. 

Castiel catches his own eye in the mirror, and he can see it, the way his mind is turning, plotting conspiracy with himself. Surely another few minutes won’t matter. He bites his lip and glances over his shoulder towards the door.

No, of course not. How could they? 

When he looks back in the mirror, his mouth is set in determination. 

After all, he is, technically, no longer in the shower.

He reaches over the counter and makes one long sweep with the towel, peeling back the steam from chest to hip of his reflection, and takes a step back to assess. He’s grown accustomed to thinking of this body, this reflection, as his—as _him_ —but hasn’t spent much time studying it, not from this perspective, anyway, taking it in as someone else might see it. But he looks now, unabashed. 

His skin still holds the pink flush of heat from the shower, and when he drops the towel, tosses it aside, he can see it, the way the flush hangs on him, colors him from his thighs to his throat. He reaches up to touch his clavicle, that horizon of bone beneath taut skin, a little brush of fingers on flesh. Such a small thing that it surprises him. He shivers.

He traces that touch down, through the shallow valley between his pectorals. In the mirror, his hand opens, palm to his chest, and his thumb drifts, rubs the nub of one nipple. His body answers with a buzz, a warm shot of bliss that he didn’t expect. He rolls his lips with a hum, taking note. 

From there, he can see, can feel, his chest slope toward his ribs and abdominal muscles, all faintly underscored with shadow by the light above the sink. He wraps his fingers briefly over his tattoo—the only claim he’s made on this body, the only part of it that’s authentically _his_ —before sliding his hand down to rest at the furrow where torso turns to hip, to the faint trail of hair that leads from his navel to the dense, dark scruff at his groin. Castiel lets his fingers follow it, lets them sneak over his skin until they hover near the flesh of his cock. He’s not hard. Not yet. 

But then, he reminds himself, that is what he set out to witness. 

At first touch, his cock hangs small and soft against his body. In the mirror, he watches himself cup his fingers under it, forming that loose C shape, and squeezes gently, adding the barest tug. He’s gratified by the way his cock jumps, by the thrum and rush of his blood through his body. He pulls again, and again, and feels his cock firm as he watches his reflection, watches it grow in his hand, watches the fat head emerge from the cusp of his fingers. 

A sound escapes his mouth before he realizes he’s made it, and oh, God, he thinks, as his eyelids sink heavy, yes. Yes, that feels good, but—

He shakes his head and forces his eyes to open. After all, the whole point of this exercise was to watch. 

He fastens his gaze back on the mirror and watches as his downward strokes turn into upward pulls as his cock rises, its hard length curving out away from his body. Steam is steadily reclaiming the mirror, fogging over Castiel’s face and neck, but he doesn’t care. He can’t. His attention is lower, zeroed in on his hand and his cock, and it’s easier this way, he thinks—as he studies the speed of his hand, the twist of his wrist—easier to imagine that perhaps it’s not his hand that he’s watching. To imagine instead that it’s Dean’s, that maybe this is what it would look like if Dean’s hand were working him, jerking him, that maybe this is how he would touch Castiel, what he might do to make Castiel feel good.

He moans, a hoarse whimper that he can’t contain, because he hasn’t forgotten the power of that fantasy, of Dean’s chin hooked on Castiel’s shoulder, Dean’s lips there—Castiel reaches his free hand up and touches the spot—just there on his neck.

And _oh_ , he thinks, blinding white. Oh, yes. _Dean._

So Castiel pretends, for a moment, that Dean is behind him. Pretends, just for the sake of it, that it’s Dean hand curved around his cock, Dean’s fingers playing with the first pearl of precum at the tip, Dean’s hot breath on his ear, growling, _Fuck, Cas. Fuck, I love the feel of you._

Castiel can feel his thighs tense, his toes tighten against the tile floor. He swallows hard and breathes deep, but his eyes never leave that reflection, the shade of Dean just behind.

If that hand were Dean’s hand, he might make longer strokes, like— _yes_ —this, achingly slow pulls from base to tip. He might push his thumb over the head of Castiel’s cock, might smear precum all over the slit and around the crown. 

And if Dean were here, he might drag his other hand along Castiel’s ribs, might dig his nails into Castiel’s skin to pull him closer, might rub a wet thumb over Castiel’s nipple, taunting it until it's firm and tingling.

In the mirror, Castiel’s hips buck and his spine arches, hot tacks of want in his back, and he fights the thought that this could never be, fights to hang onto the fantasy as he watches his hand pump faster and harder over his cock. Dean could hardly discuss this with him, of course he’d never _participate._

But if it could be, if he did, if he _wanted_ to . . . Oh Lord, if Dean wanted to. 

He wants Dean to want this too.

Castiel whimpers because if Dean were here, he’d want Dean to tell him that, and if Dean were here, he would. He’d say it. He’d say, _You don’t even know, Cas. You don’t even know how much I want you. I think about you, like this._

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Castiel says, words honey shards in his throat. He pitches forward and grabs the counter’s edge with his free hand, hips jerking into the other of their own accord. “I’m close,” he whispers to the mirror, to a Dean who isn’t there. “I’m so close, Dean. Yes— Please, _please._ ”

He throws head back, eyes closed, right at the edge of orgasm, but— 

_No. No, look at me, Cas._

He looks back at mirror, at the blur of his cock, the hand around it, and if only, if only it were—

_Watch me, watch me make you._

Castiel chokes back Dean’s name as he comes, as he watches white, hot slick shoot from his cock, watches it splash onto the counter and catch the edge of his reflection. 

_Baby,_ Dean growls in his head. _Yeah, that’s right. Come so fucking hard for me, don’t you?_ Castiel’s knuckles go white around the counter edge. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut as it twists and pours through him, out of him.

_”Dean,_ " he thinks, or he says—he’s not sure. "Yes. For you."

When it’s over, just past the crest of pleasure, when his cock is spent and his hand has stilled, Castiel looks up to meet his own eye in the mirror. And just for a second, he smiles.

Then there’s a knock at the door. 

Castiel startles, his feet tripping backward, heart thundering, suddenly aware of the mess he’s made, the smell of come, the over-hot clench of the air.

“Cas?” Dean calls. 

_Dean._ Castiel’s brain panics.

“You, uh— Are you— Everything okay in there?”

“I—” Castiel snaps into action, grabs his towel from the floor, and wipes his hand, the counter, the mirror, and oh, that wasn’t quite right, but— He clears his throat and starts again. “Yes! Yes. I was just . . .” he glances at his wild-eyed reflection, desperate for an answer, “Um. Shaving. I’m shaving.” 

There’s silence on the other side of the door and all at once Castiel remembers: it’s not locked. _Shit,_ he thinks, scrambling over to where he left his boxers and hopping into them, one leg at a time, praying that Dean doesn’t try the knob. But why would he? There’s no reason for him to—

“Alright,” Dean says, voice drifting through the wood. “I just thought I heard, uh. Something.”

“I nicked myself,” Cas answers quickly and, oh no, he’ll have to shave now, with a razor and everything, to cover the lie. He’s certainly cut himself enough times before, so Dean won’t question— “It hurt,” he says to the door. “And, uh, I’m bleeding. But I’m— I’m fine. It’s all fine here, now.”

He closes his eyes and listens for any sound from Dean, though it’s hard to hear anything over the loud thump of his pulse.

“If you say so, Solo,” Dean says, and he maybe sounds amused. Perhaps. “Just, uh, make sure you clean up in there. When you’re done.”

This is a lesson in embarrassment, Castiel thinks. This is what it’s like to be embarrassed. 

“I will.” He nods, even though Dean can’t see him. Thankfully.

“Okay. Good.”

“Good,” Cas repeats, then winces. “I mean, okay.”

He thinks he hears Dean huff a laugh, but doesn’t move until he hears footsteps move away from the door.

Castiel sighs, his eyes caught one last time on the mirror, at the mess that he’s made. From now on, he thinks, he’ll stick to indulging himself in the shower. It’s just so much cleaner. 

Next time, he’ll know better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

  
The chamber of commerce of Bella Vista, Arkansas, should get some kind of award for creative advertising or chutzpah or maybe just straight-up magical thinking, because the place is a lot of things—after sixteen hours on his feet on its streets, Dean can testify to that—but a _beautiful view_ sure as hell isn’t one of them. Maybe in the summertime it’s nice, out by the lakes or whatever it is the townspeople never stop talking about. But in the sloppy seconds of November, in the damp and the muck and the cold? Not so much.

Granted, they’d spent most of their time inside, but every change of location meant another slog to or from the car. Maybe he wouldn’t be so annoyed if they’d actually found what they were looking for. But instead they’ve wasted a day, he and Cas, investigating zip and getting pissy at each other besides. Dean would kill to be home in own bed tonight, stretched out on a mattress that practically remembers his name, but it’s pouring and it’s late and, frankly, he doesn’t have it in him these days to be in the car for long stretches when he doesn’t have to. (And when in his life did four hours become a long stretch, exactly?) 

He swings the Impala into the closest spot outside their room and cuts the engine. “Fuck,” he says to the wheel, to the tsunami that lies between the car and their motel room, to himself.

“What are you waiting for?” Cas asks, irritated. He’s shifting his shoulders in a way that Dean’s learned means the suit is bothering him. Which is funny, Dean thinks, given how many years Cas spent in a two-piece seemingly of his own accord. But now he tugs at the tie all the time, yanks at his cuffs like they’re cutting his wrists. 

Sam thinks this makes total sense—something about Cas experiencing heightened physical sensations and probably preferring t-shirts and jeans just like everybody else—but Sam’s missing the part where all that tugging and fussing reminds Dean that Cas doesn’t want to be in his clothes, and Cas-not-in-his-clothes is a thing Dean’s had to try very hard not to think about lately.

It makes Dean feel kind of dumb. Before they freaking _lived together,_ he was way better at keeping his head out of Cas’s pants. And, crap, no, that sounds— Ugh. Whatever.

Cas makes an impatient gesture at the motel and Dean remembers that he’s got the key. 

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go,” he grumbles. “Last time.” 

They throw themselves into the rain and run, and oh shit, it’s gross, but the key turns on the first try, hallelujah, and they make it into the room only half drenched rather than totally soaked. There’s three or four seconds then where they just stand there staring at each other in the entryway, panting and dripping and, Jesus. This is exactly why this whole thing is not okay. 

Dean turns away first, moving to his side of the room and chucking his keys and wallet onto the nightstand with, okay maybe unnecessary force. 

Cas is making disgusted wet cat noises in the corner and Dean catches a flash of navy suit falling over broad shoulders before he flops backwards on his bed, shrugging off his own coat as he goes. He kicks off his shoes, shoves up his sleeves, and just breathes, tries to shake off the day and the damp and all this agitation over Cas. He slings an elbow over his eyes and sighs and, for a good thirty seconds, everything’s all right with the world.

Because for thirty seconds, he’s not thinking about Cas and clothes, about Cas coming out of his clothes, about Cas and a distinct lack of clothes, about Cas’s skin, about the way it must get pink when he comes. Pale skin like that, yeah, there's gotta be this fat little flush that climbs up his chest as his cock jerks and he—

"Um, do you mind if I—?" 

Dean peeks out from under his arm, breath held and hoping his face doesn’t full-on scream _guilty._ Cas is clutching his shower kit and inching toward the bathroom, already stupidly shirtless and, shit, is his belt undone?

"Yeah, s'fine,” Dean says and waves Cas on, because it’s either that or beckoning him to come hither. “S'all yours.” 

The door closes and the water kicks up, and Dean’s lungs deflate like a busted balloon.

So what if Cas brought up his dick at the breakfast table a couple weeks ago. Big deal, right? Awkward, sure, but that’s Cas in all his angel/human-hybrid glory, or whatever. Usually Dean rolls with that. Likes it, even. If he’s honest. He’s always liked being the one to teach Cas human stuff.

But it was weird, wasn’t it? Maybe a little extra weird, talking about stuff like that? Dean's replayed their exchange in his head a hundred (thousand) times, kicking himself for losing his cool every time. He just keeps telling himself the subject was a shock. And it _was._ But then, then last week Dean heard . . . what he thinks he heard, and now . . . 

Cas naked and wet and panting, stroking one out against the shower wall? Cas naked and wet and biting off Dean’s name as he comes? Shit. _Shit._ And for fucking days it's been there, that image, sizzling in the back of his brain, a hot itch hasn’t allowed himself to scratch, because if he’s wrong, if he didn’t hear it or it wasn’t what he thinks it was—

Goddamn it.

Dean digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to scrub it away yet again.

Because what’s _weird,_ he tells himself, is to be perving on an ex-angel, period. The guy’s barely hung up his wings and Dean already wants to shove him against the nearest available surface and educate him in some of the finer points of being human. But he hasn’t and he won’t and the past two weeks it’s taken every spare ounce of self-control not to rub one out on his own time, behind his very own locked door. 

Not that he’s _never_ done something like that, exactly. He can admit it. He’s had kind of a thing for Cas since back before the apocalypse, and if he’s hit a climax or seven over the years thinking about those stupid-blue eyes or that sex-deep voice, well, newsflash: he’s only human. 

It just feels like the rules are different now, what with Cas being earthbound and _fragile_ in a way that’s kind of frightening. And Dean doesn’t want to make a mess, doesn’t want to break him. Again. Somehow. 

God knows Castiel’s been broken enough.

So it doesn’t matter that he’s always wanted to put his hands on Cas, always wanted Cas to reach out and touch him back. Or that through every season of his life they’ve weathered together, every shade of strange their relationship has been and become, that’s one thing that’s never changed. It doesn’t.

Because it’s not like there was a morning he woke up and thought, _shit, it’s Cas—I’m in love with Cas._ Except there must have been one, because now it’s like that all the damn time. 

And now the bastard wants to chat about boners and say the word _arousal_ in Dean’s presence and wants Dean to tell him how to make himself come and sneaks in hour-long showers to do just that with Dean’s name on his tongue—apparently, maybe—and _fuck._ Worse, he’s around all the time. There’s no goddamn escape. They’re together like it’s normal and, terribly, it sort of is, and Dean has no clue how to deal.

A glance at the clock doesn't tell him anything but the time. 

He sighs and sits up, loosening the knot of his tie, and he’s a half-step from turning on the TV when there’s an odd noise from the bathroom, like the shower’s choking on its own tongue. It splutters and there’s some banging, and some undignified yelping, before the strangled hiss of the water fades down to a drizzle. Less than.

"Uh. You okay in there, Cas?" he calls, trying not to feel like it’s déjà vu all over again.

"I— uh—" 

There's a pause, some more yelping, then a vaguely metallic clatter. 

"The shower appears to be broken," Cas shouts.

Dean purses his lips and weighs his options. "Broken how?" 

"Um. Very?"

The hesitation in his voice makes Dean chuckle. This is a dude who cracked open heaven, like, more than once, and now he’s embarrassed about fucking up some plumbing? That's adorable.

Dammit. Dean is so fucking screwed.

"Can you—” Cas says around that same little hitch. “Can you come here? It's very— Maybe you can fix it?" 

Dean buries his face in his hands, just for a second. Just long enough to get words together. 

"It can't be that bad," he says to Cas, to his conscience, to himself, as he gets to his feet and nudges open the door.

To a naked and wet Cas.

Right. Because, hello, Cas is in the shower.

And for all the water in the room, all the steam on the mirror and the pool at Cas’s feet, Dean's mouth goes very, very dry. 

Cas's hair is somehow both plastered to his head and shooting up in every direction. There’s water dripping from his nose, his forearms, down his—nope. Nope, Dean is not looking lower than elbows. He's not, damn it, because if he does— 

He takes a deep breath that comes out like a rattle and gives himself a second to get a grip. It’s not like this is exactly the fantasy he’s been denying himself for weeks or anything. Because it’s not. No. It’s his friend who has a problem and he’s just asking Dean for a hand, and shit, that is so not helping.

He tells his brain to shut the hell up, steps into the bathroom, and closes the door. 

Cas has one hand clenched around the shower curtain, white knuckles in cheap plastic, the other wrapped around something silver that looks suspiciously like the shower handle; which is good, because it gives Dean something to focus on, to stare at, rather than all that slick, beautiful skin. 

"It . . . broke," Cas says. 

He sounds like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and Dean can’t help it. He grins. "Yeah,” he says. “You're not kidding."

Cas scowls. "No. I'm not kidding, Dean, I’m—"

He lifts his foot like he’s gonna climb out and, no. There’s no way in hell that wet naked Cas is getting any closer to Dean. No way. 

“Hey!” Dean says, his voice ringing off the tile. “Stop. I mean, uh, stay. Just stay there, in there, I mean, and move, uh, that way." He gestures at the far end of the tub, back behind the curtain.

It's happening again, he thinks, frantic. He's practically hemorrhaging cool. Cas needs his help, for crying out loud, not a side dish of Dean Winchester’s Issues.

"Here's how this is gonna go,” Dean says, stern, bundling his sleeves up to his elbows, “you're gonna stay right there and I'm gonna fix this. Got it?"

Cas holds up his hands in surrender and backs away, sort of out of sight.

"Okay." Dean rolls his shoulders. "Okay." 

He does not think _fuck._ At least not more than six or seven times.

He stalks up on the tub like it’s gonna bite him, wary as hell, but he still jumps when Cas starts waving the handle around in the general direction of his face.

"Don't you need this?" 

Dean shoot him a glare and grabs. "Gimme that." 

Cas’s hand is shaking when it meets his, and against his better judgment, he looks up. The guy’s practically blue, teeth chattering and goosebumps everywhere.

He must look too long, or too wrong, because Cas makes a face. “Dean. The water is very cold. If you think you’ll be unable to repair it quickly, then I will have to—”

“No. No,” Dean says firmly. “I— I just need a second.”

Cas huffs like he doesn’t buy that, but whatever. He’s the one who asked for Dean’s help, the one who dragged Dean into the middle of a wet dream, so—

Shower, Dean thinks fiercely. Fix it. _Now._

The shower is one of those demon hotel jobs with just the one handle that you have to position exactly right or else you burn or freeze. There's not even a tap below it for a bath option. Just the silver circle where the handle should be, because, sure enough, the screws have stripped, and Cas has pulled the damn handle clean off.

Dean futzes with the stub of the shower stem first, seeing if he can get the water back on without the handle. Maybe if he had some pliers. 

"It came out hot," Cas offers. "I tried to adjust it, but then it got too cold. I turned it off, but then when I tried to get it back on, it broke." 

"Yeah," Dean grunts, wedging the handle against the stem, aiming to turn it on that way, since the damn thing's obviously not going to go back on easy. He doesn't have the angle to leverage it right. Not from out here, anyway. 

Before he can think the better of it—or think at all—Dean rips off his socks and climbs into the tub. The showerhead sticks out far enough that if he manages to get it working the water should overshoot him. Probably.

Although at this point, cold water might do him a favor.

"Okay, you sonofabitch," he says, wedging the handle in again and cranking it. The metal grinds and groans but there's a clunk of pipes and then a familiar whoosh. 

Dean laughs, squeezing out of the water's reach.

"Oh!" comes Cas's relieved sigh. "Oh, Dean. It's warm." 

Dean forgets he's not supposed to turn around and turns around. 

" _Warm,_ " Cas purrs, slinking into the spray. His eyes are closed and the color’s coming back to his cheeks and—

Dean should not be looking. He shouldn’t. But . . . 

Cas moans, a little sound, low and deep. It sounds like praise for the water, for the heat, sweet relief. ”Thank you,” he chants, “thank you, thank you.”

Fuck it. Dean is _transfixed._

Water pours over Cas's body, rebounding off his skin and splashing Dean’s shirt. Cas is turning under the spray, hands drifting over his skin, and he’s close, God, he’s close. Droplets skim off his broad shoulders, cup his back, slide down his arms, and Dean is half hard just from watching him.

He’s so caught up in the staring that Cas catches him off guard, bumping into him, the soft press of his side brushing Dean’s arm before he backs up a bare inch. 

Cas’s eyes open, slow. "Oh, hello," he says, like he forgot Dean was there.

"Hey," Dean says tightly, breath barely leaving his lungs.

He must look like an idiot, standing here slack-jawed and soaked in his damn dress clothes. Fuck, he’s still wearing his tie, whereas Cas—

Cas's smile hooks right into him. Widens, loosens. It’s the first real smile Dean’s seen on him all day. The best one in maybe weeks. And it’s definitely all for Dean.

Cas’s stance shifts. His shoulders sink back, his hips push forward, and his eyes drop, just for second, before he finds Dean’s face again, his own a swirl of sweetness and sin.

"Hey,” Cas says, and it’s weighted in a way that makes it more than an echo.

Dean opens his mouth to say . . . something . . . but then there’s a fist pulling his tie and a mouth hot and open under his, and any words he might have added have been washed clean away, stolen right from his tongue.

* *

Castiel doesn’t know what’s possessed him, whether it was something in the look Dean gave or the heady warmth that made him believe this is all just another fevered fantasy from the hungry dark of his imagination, but the firm fact of Dean’s kiss swells inside him. This is _real._

He leans away to draw breath, to marvel at Dean, at the water caught along his eyelashes and the wet, pink slick of his mouth. 

“Dean,” he says, dazed, an expression of gladness, of desire, and this time it’s Dean who pulls Castiel’s mouth to his.

Castiel thrills. 

Dean complicates this second kiss by pushing his fingers through Castiel’s hair, a touch that’s hard and intimate and coaxing. It’s unexpected, the way Dean touches him—the dig of Dean’s nails at his neck, the small strokes of his thumb—each one sending a shiver down Castiel’s spine. Dean _wants_ him.

Dean hums and lifts his head a little, just enough to shove a few words between them. “That good?” He works his hand through again and tangles it in the ends, in the longest strands at the top of Castiel’s head. “You like that, Cas?”

Castiel clutches at Dean’s waist, at his belt. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes.” 

Dean curves his hand to the back of Castiel’s head and pulls and Castiel can’t help it, the way his mouth falls open this time. It makes their third kiss faster, wetter, deeper. 

He slides his hands up Dean’s chest as they touch and turn, over Dean’s soaked-through shirt, the white cotton turned translucent and clinging to pink skin. Castiel wants it off, wants to touch that skin himself, but he also wants more of Dean’s taste, more of the soft, hot sounds Dean’s making as they kiss, more of this chase of tongues, of this slow dissolution into one another. 

Castiel gets lost in kissing, in the sweet haze of Dean’s mouth and hands. It’s only when his cock brushes the rough, wet fabric at the front of Dean’s pants that he realizes that he’s hard.

“ _Oh,_ ” Castiel whines, working his hips against Dean’s, trapping his cock between their bodies and grinding until Dean’s lips stumble and he moans, this deep unbidden sound, right into Castiel’s mouth.

“God,” Dean huffs, one hand falling to Castiel’s waist, clutching him, dragging Castiel closer, as if there’s any room left at all. “Cas,” he pants, “are you—? Oh, fuck.” His hips jerk and he makes a helpless little noise. “Jesus. Yeah, you are. You’re so hard for me, aren’t you? Can I— Shit, Cas, please let me touch you.”

 _You **are** ,_ Castiel wants to point out, but his mouth can’t move. He can only shove his body against Dean’s, push his tongue at Dean’s teeth and groan.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice tight. “Fuck. Cas.”

Castiel holds his breath and braces himself for Dean’s touch, for Dean to drop his hand between them and squeeze his cock. But Dean surprises him by kissing him instead, secret and slow. Different than before, but good, so good, Dean licking the tension from Castiel’s mouth until he relaxes, until he has to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck and hold on just to get his fill of Dean’s lips, his tongue.

Dimly, he can feel Dean’s hand weaving around his hip, can feel Dean’s palm slipping over his tattoo, down the heat of his belly, until his fingers are fluttering over the crown of Castiel’s cock. It’s just a shade of a touch, fingertips teasing over the slit, but the teasing makes Castiel ache.

He can’t wait. He doesn’t know how. The Dean in his imagination only ever indulged him, drove him. Never, ever made him wait.

“Dean,” Castiel says, the word falling out loud and ragged. “Don’t— I need you— Please, you have to—”

“Christ, Cas,” Dean mutters. 

He spreads his fingers before closing them in an easy fist and the sound Castiel makes is not human. Or perhaps that’s exactly what it is, wholly and utterly, because for the first time since he fell, Castiel feels alive.

It’s so _good,_ the way that Dean touches him. So good that his head swims, floats away on the sensation of Dean’s hand on his cock, of Dean’s mouth on the curve of his neck. He staggers a little, off balance, and Dean chuckles into his skin.

“Baby,” Dean says. “Baby. You gotta— Come on.”

He nudges Castiel backwards, until Castiel’s spine meets the tile wall, and okay, yes. This is better. He can breathe here, just outside the spray. He’s steadier, even as he watches Dean lean an arm’s length away, just enough so Castiel can see his own hands kneading at the film of Dean’s shirt. He drags his fingers over the nub of Dean’s nipple and Dean’s eyes go wide, give Castiel a flash of his own reflection, a glimpse of himself heady and wild. 

Dean sucks in a surprised breath but his hand doesn’t stop stroking, doesn’t stop staring, his lips twitching as he looks Castiel up and down. “Goddamn,” he says, dark little rumble. “You’re something else, Cas. You know that?”

He jerks Castiel harder, harder than Cas has touched himself, and it’s good. Very, very good. It makes something boil in Castiel’s body, the pull and twist of Dean’s hand, makes the tendons in his thighs tremble, makes the pleasure wind in his gut as his cock stiffens. There’s awe in Dean’s steady gaze, and although Castiel wants that, wants to please Dean and for Dean to want him, there’s an uncertainty tangled in that awe, he thinks, as though Dean believes he must be careful, as if Castiel is delicate and might shatter at any moment. And it’s just not true. He may not be the warrior he was, but he’s alive now with a whole new kind of power. 

So he digs his fingers into Dean’s collar and yanks him forward. Dean plants a fast hand on the tile beside Castiel’s head, close enough for Castiel to sink his teeth into the soft lobe of Dean’s ear, for him to growl, “I won’t break. I won’t.” 

Dean’s face flutters, almost flinches, but he makes a pleased noise that Castiel can feel more than hear. “You better not,” he says, voice just as gruff. He shifts, switches his stance with a rough jostle that Castiel doesn’t understand, and then Dean’s slotting Castiel’s upper thigh between his legs and thrusting his hips to meet it, and yes, Castiel thinks, elated, _yes._ It’s amazing—Dean’s erection pressing against him, hard for him, because of him.

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut as Dean’s grip on his dick tightens, as his strokes pull harder, longer, faster. “Kiss me,” he groans, the demand taking him by surprise but _needing,_ empty, wanting in a way he can’t explain. “Dean, I— Kiss me. Please.”

He looks up, searching Dean’s face—surely he understands what Castiel feels, even if Castiel can’t—and Lord, Castiel thinks, Dean Winchester is beautiful. There’s water falling over Dean’s face, spilling down his cheeks, as he tips in close, his mouth resting just out of reach. He's staring into Castiel’s eyes, the flash of his smile tinged with wonder, a slow easy thing in contrast to the hot, heavy jerk of his fist.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Dean’s voice is thick and sweet. “God, you could come right now.”

Castiel’s hips pitch up and he cries out. It’s all he can do with Dean’s hand on his cock, that smile hanging right in his face, and Lord, his heart is galloping in his chest, his lungs barely have air now, how can they? and he is, he _will,_ Dean is gonna make him—

But Dean's hand eases its rhythm, loosens its grip, and it's—

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his tongue curling in the hollow of Castiel's throat. "Slow it down for me, okay? Please. I wanna . . . "

The _almost-yes-please-now_ feeling is gone and Castiel wants to mourn it, he does, but he can’t. Not with Dean licking his neck, sucking a row of kisses behind his ear and down his throat, fierce little things that make Castiel shudder and tug at Dean’s tie.

“ _Oh,_ ” he says, dark shot of sound. “Oh. Dean.”

Dean rumbles something against his shoulder and keeps moving, chasing the water down Castiel’s chest with his tongue and his teeth. Castiel lets go of his tie and instead slides his fingers through the wet mess of Dean’s hair. He bows his back, shoves himself at Dean’s mouth, even as Dean gets a hand on Castiel’s hip and holds him, steadies him.

“Shhh,” Dean soothes—an impossible entreaty, surely, given the ways he’s turning his tongue over Castiel’s nipple, tugging it with the tips of his teeth the same way he’s tugging at Castiel’s cock, drawing desperation from Castiel’s body, drop by drop. He finds himself arching again, clawing at Dean’s neck and panting.

“ _Please,_ ” Castiel hears himself say, hears himself beg, needing an unnamable something. “Dean— Ah, _fuck._ ”

Dean straightens up, eyes bright with mischief, and he grins. “Yeah,” he says, like they’ve sealed a deal. “Yeah, Cas, okay.” He kisses Castiel, a quick brush of lips, and sinks to his knees.

Castiel’s breath snags in his throat. “What are you—?” 

But Dean doesn’t answer, just pushes Castiel’s hips back with both hands and leans in, Castiel’s fingers still knotted in his hair. He sucks more hot kisses into Castiel’s ribs, a ladder of heat down Castiel’s abdomen, first one side and then the other. Castiel is past thinking, past reason. His mouth opens and closes of its own accord, finally finding a moan as Dean drags his bottom lip over his belly.

In all that he’s imagined, Castiel never accounted for anything like this—Dean on his knees, Dean’s lips sucking supplications into his skin. Beautiful torment.

He gasps as Dean reaches up to toy with his cock again, gentle, slippery touches that feed the fire at the base of Castiel’s spine. Dean’s head shifts, makes Castiel’s fingers chase him as he moves over to lick Castiel’s tattoo, nibbling at the sacred language inked into Castiel’s skin. He lays his mouth over the ancient words on Castiel’s body, kissing each holy line, and in the drift of his lips, in the careful worship from this imperfect man whose righteous soul laid claim to Castiel long ago, Castiel feels something immutable, something like starlight, something not so far from grace.

He pulls at Dean’s hair, harder than he should, perhaps, because Dean looks up, his lips still flush against Castiel’s flesh. His eyes are hazy bright and so full of want that Castiel cries out, lets his head fall back to the wall. And then Dean’s drifting again, dropping kisses deeper, below his tattoo and beyond, into the smooth strip of skin just above the dark scruff that frames Castiel’s cock.

“Dean—” he says again, low and unsteady, the word rolling around in his mouth as Dean’s tongue slides into the groove of his hip. 

“All the ways I want you, Cas,” Dean says, his mouth never leaving Castiel’s skin. “The things I could do, ways I could make you come—you don’t even know.” 

He bites the top of Castiel’s thigh and links his thumb and forefinger just below the crown of Castiel’s cock, forming a tight O that Castiel can feel in his teeth as Dean noses the scruff around his cock. And then Dean _licks,_ his tongue soft and broad at the base of Castiel's cock, tracing its way up until his lips fold over the top, meeting the O of his fingers. 

Castiel groans over his bitten lip, fists tight in Dean’s hair. He doesn’t know a damn thing, he thinks, watching Dean slide down and do it again, a long, slow lick this time. He doesn’t understand a fucking thing about pleasure, about how to reach or feel or find it. The revelation crashes through him, echoing over and over as Dean’s mouth keeps moving, as he sucks at the crown, tongue turning in the slit as he makes a fist around Castiel’s cock again, fingers lacing tight and shoving down and—

“ _Shit,_ ” Castiel hisses, hands scrabbling as his hips try to thrust into the heat that Dean’s teasing him with, not quite letting him take. “Dean, you—”

Dean surprises him again. Raises his head for a moment, green eyes burning.

“You gotta tell me,” he pants. “If it doesn’t feel good, Cas, you gotta tell me, okay? You just say it and I’ll—”

Castiel shakes his head, adamant, frantic. “No, it’s good. It feels good,” he rasps, yanking at Dean’s hair, shoving Dean’s face at his cock. “ _Fuck._ Do it again.”

Dean’s whole body jolts and this time when he opens his mouth, he takes Castiel deeper, drops his fist to the base and pulls Castiel over his tongue, presses the head to the soft sweep inside his cheek and sucks. He was holding back, Castiel thinks dimly, watching Dean’s head rock. Dean had been trying to go slow, trying to, trying, but with both Castiel’s hands back on his head, there’s no way that he can.

Dean’s own hands are everywhere. One fast on Castiel’s shaft— _yes_ —another drifting back, cupping the soft skin of Castiel’s scrotum, teasing the inside of his thighs. Castiel had never thought to touch himself there, hadn’t known enough to imagine a touch such as that, a sweet cradling counterpoint to the hungry drag of Dean’s mouth.

“Oh,” the word peels from his throat. “Dean, you’re— So good, Dean, so—”

It’s hot and it’s cramped and there’s water everywhere, beating into Dean’s back, catching Castiel in the face and stinging his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He watches the water slide—down his body, tumble over his hips and slip down Dean’s face, drip from his chin. So many showers, Castiel thinks, so many showers to get clean and this is filthy. It’s obscene—the seal of Dean’s lips, the twist of his tongue—and Castiel wants it, God help him, he wants it, all of it. 

And he _has_ it.

He stretches his fingers over Dean’s lips, tracing the smooth seal of suction, and Dean moans, a tiny whimper of noise that he buries in Castiel’s cock right before he lifts his mouth away. 

“You like that, Cas?” Dean asks. He voice is wrecked and his mouth is red, deep, wet red that Castiel can’t stop touching. Dean nips at Castiel’s thumb as it skates over his lip. “You like watching me suck you?”

Dean looks beautiful, half-crazed and so _happy_ that Castiel stops breathing. He can only nod in response, mesmerized by Dean’s mouth, distracted by the hot hand still pumping his cock. His hips buck, pressing his cock against Dean’s face. 

“I’m gonna make you come,” Dean says, head turned so his lips ghost along Castiel’s length. “D’you want that? You want me to suck you off?” His tongue sneaks out, just the tip. “Make you come so hard?”

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and gulps. Words are not equal to the force of what’s inside him. “ _Yes,_ ” he breathes, forcing his lids open. “I want, want you to . . .” 

“Tell me, Cas,” Dean says, smile and eyes bright. “Tell me what you want. Is it this?” He moves like a snake, sneakier than the water, just pushes up and swallows Castiel down.

“Yes,” Castiel shouts, head hitting the wall. “Make me. Dean, make me.” It’s part order, part plea as the hot glide of Dean’s mouth draws nonsense from his own. “Make me come. Make me come for you. I want— God, Dean, fucking _make_ me— ” He spreads his legs wider and watches as Dean leans forward on his knees, a hungry hum at the back of his throat that Castiel can feel in his cock. 

Dean’s wet, ruined clothes cling and stick while Castiel is naked before him, wrapped only in water and the clutch of Dean’s hands. And he should feel vulnerable, at the mercy of Dean’s mouth, Dean’s command, but it’s the opposite. Castiel feels invincible in this moment, chest expanding with every breath and beyond. Inside he’s expanding like the universe, blown wide and alive, aware of every movement and molecule. 

Dean lifts his eyes, water pouring over his cheeks and down his chin as he sucks, unrelenting, his fist sliding to meet his lips, and Castiel knows he’s falling, tumbling fast toward orgasm.

“Dean!” he pleads. “Make— you’re making me. I’m— You’re— Dean. Oh fuck yes,” his voice drops deep, “Fuck yes, _Dean._ ” 

Castiel slams into something heavy and primal. It pushes and rushes, pounding through him. Coming like this, with Dean’s mouth on him, around him, feels bigger than it ever had on his own. Deeper, longer, elation and electricity crashing in his veins as he watches Dean swallow his come. His fingers dig into Dean’s shoulders as Dean takes everything that Castiel gives him, his eyes closed and hands clenched around Castiel’s quaking hips. He’s still sucking, his tongue rolling gentle around the head as if he’s savoring Castiel, every last drop.

It’s new and awesome, unexpected, and Castiel is even more certain now: he never knew—there was no way he could have known, could even have imagined, what it’s like to have Dean coax pleasure from his body, to fuck and fill Dean’s mouth, to watch white come fall from his lips as he lifts his head and grins.

But now he’s got Dean here to teach him.

Dean wipes his face and sinks forward, forehead pressed against the top of Castiel’s thigh. “Jesus fucking Christ, Cas,” he sighs. Castiel touches Dean’s hair, still drifting, and barely registering a wet rustle, a shuffle, and then Dean moaning, throaty and relieved. 

“Jesus,” Dean says, his forehead shoving hard into Castiel’s flesh. “Oh my God. _Fuck._ ”

And, oh, as his head clears, clouds lifting, Castiel realizes that Dean— Dean is— Dean’s touching himself, jerking his cock at Castiel’s feet.

Castiel is spent, his body sings with exhaustion, but here, he realizes, is an opportunity. One he’s never had before. Another—a new—fantasy he can make come true. The thought sends a long lick of desire down his sated spine. 

“No, Dean, wait,” he demands, fumbling blindly. He reaches down, manages to grab a handful of wet shirt, and drags Dean up on wobbly legs. 

“What? Whoa. Cas!” Dean protests, but then he’s there, they’re there, standing together in the spray and Dean’s eyes are bewildered and wanting. Castiel recognizes that want, and knows now how to meet it. 

He kisses Dean, their tongues slick with water and come, and coaxes Dean to follow he leans back against the shower wall once more. Dean’s hands scrabble between them, undoing his tie and the buttons on his shirt, but Castiel isn’t interested in those. His hands roam lower, pushing the sagging front of Dean’s trousers out of the way and reaching down to run his fingers over Dean’s needy cock. Dean groans and, in one motion, finally pulls his wilted tie from his neck as he melts into Castiel, shoving their bodies together.

Castiel has seen creation in all its vagaries, holy and degraded, ancient and newly born, and yet he’s never known and never seen—never _experienced_ —indulgence such as this: the smooth, hot press of Dean’s bare chest, Dean’s tongue on his neck, Dean’s twitching cock in his hand. He may be human now, but he knows this isn’t base need or greed. Dean’s skin may feel like sin, and the roll of his hips and shift his hands might seem unholy, but Castiel’s desire for him, for Dean, he's sure: it's pure and fierce and forever.

But right now, Castiel desires nothing more than to make Dean Winchester come.

* *

“Goddamn, yes,” Dean pants into Cas’s neck, “Touch me, fuck yes. Touch me.” He’s impressed by his own coherence, frankly.

Cas’s fingers are soft from the water but his grip on Dean’s cock is firm and perfect. Dean is so hard he could explode, which makes sense because if there’s such a thing as a sex bomb, Cas is nuclear warhead. Whatever fantasies Dean’d had about Cas as some blushing, wide-eyed virgin were both sorta right and really fucking wrong. Sure, Dean’s mouth on his cock had obviously blown his mind, but there’s no way in hell the guy is shy. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you,” Cas says, words hurried, “I thought about you touching me, touched myself pretending it was you. I thought about this, Dean. About what it would be like to feel you.“

Dean chokes on a laugh. He knew it. He fucking knew Cas was jacking off during those forever-long showers. But he didn’t know (well, maybe didn’t know for sure) it was about _him._ “Sonofabitch,” he rasps, but it doesn’t even slow Cas down—his mouth or his hand.

“I never thought I’d get to. I never— I never thought you’d want me.” Cas swirls a thumb around the head of Dean’s cock the way Dean had done to him, and the idea of Dean _not_ wanting Cas seems hilariously impossible—he’s held back for so long, tried so hard not to, and now, fucking _now,_ he has an ex-angel up against a wall, hand hot and fast on his cock.

Dean is breathless, voice ragged against Cas’s ear. “Wanted you, Cas. Wanted— Baby. Oh, God. You’re gonna fucking kill me. I’m—”

“You’re close,” Cas says, certain. “You are. I can feel it.” 

Dean fucks up into Cas’s touch, his body chasing Cas’s hand, and _shit,_ it’s so good. So good he cries out, one palm smacking the tile by Castiel’s head as the other flexes frantic at Castiel’s hip.

“Goddamn,” Dean says, the curse softened by the way his voice breaks, the way his cock is trembling in Cas’s fist. “Fuck. Fuck me, Cas, God, you feel so—”

“Kiss me,” Cas whispers, and this time Dean does, turns his head and shoves their mouths together, lets Cas curl a hand around his neck and lick the hurt little sounds from his lips. There’s a claim laid in this kiss. Dean knows it, feels it absolutely, the same way he did the first time he walked into the bunker back in Lebanon. Like being found, like finding. And maybe, hopefully, never having to leave. 

Cas’s mouth, his hands, everything hot and wet, their bodies pressing and pulling as it builds in Dean. Builds and builds until there’s no stopping, nothing left but to let it overrun him. His body goes taut a half-heartbeat before he comes. He breaks Cas’s kiss—can’t help it—and squeezes his eyes shut for the first second it surges through him, electric and stupid and oh God, so fucking good. “ _Oh,_ ” he groans. “Christ, yes, Cas.” 

He turns, searching for those pretty blues, but Cas isn’t looking at him. Nope, his eyes are locked down—down at Dean’s cock as it throbs in his fist, come running over his knuckles before getting chased away by the shower spray. 

“Fuckin’ A, Cas,” he growls and sucks a kiss into Cas’s neck, riding out that last sharp edge of orgasm. “You like watching me come?” 

He usually knocks off the dirty talk by this point, sure, but knowing Cas is easy to key up and how much he can get away with—now that he knows Cas truly won’t crumble—hell, there’s no reason to hold back. “It’s because of you. This is how fucking much I want you.” He gives a little thrust up to make the point, but really his body feels slack all over, that liquid kind of post-come relaxed. It’s amazing and hot and damn if Cas isn’t still loosely nursing Dean’s cock, his light touches almost too much, but Dean’s not ready to let go of the moment yet, and his imagination won’t shut up now that it’s revved up. “Next time,” he says, “Next time I want to come in you. Gonna suck your dick so hard while I open you up. Nice and slow.” 

Cas shivers, this long lovely thing Dean can feel run through both their bodies, and Jesus fuck, Castiel really is gonna kill him.

He pets Cas’s hipbone with one hand and cups his jaw with the other, dodges the kiss Cas aims at him and smirks when it earns him a glare. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, holding Castiel’s eye. “‘Cuz I wanna fuck you.” 

Cas gulps and his eyes go so fucking wide. “Dean, I—”

“I’ll fuck you good and deep, sweetheart. God, you know I will, don’t you? But when I do,” Dean leans closer, lips over Cas’s ear, “I wanna watch you touch yourself.” Cas tenses, his fingers clawing into Dean’s ribs, and it’s kind of the best thing Dean’s felt all day. Or, well, in the last two minutes. He drops a fat kiss on Cas’s neck. “Yeah,” he says, licking the words into Cas’s skin. “I wanna watch you stroke that gorgeous cock of yours while I fuck you, hmm? Get so deep up inside you and stay there, baby. Fuck you so full. Hold you down on my dick while you come and—”

“Dean,” Cas’s voice is broken. His hips are shifting, working into Dean’s like he can’t help it, like he has to.

“Yeah, Cas. Then I’ll come in you, baby. Dirty you right the fuck up. Would you like that?”

Cas moans and his knees buckle, and if Dean’s cock weren’t in a much-needed time out, that sound alone would have it perking up. “Dean,” Cas says again, breathy and beautiful. “Yes, Dean. I need—”

“Tell me what you need,” Dean purrs, or tries to, because all of a sudden Cas is pushing him off, peeling away from the wall, and practically leaping past him.

“Hey!” Dean says, snagging Cas’s arm. “What the—?” 

Cas’s face is like fire. “I need next time,” he says, so dead serious Dean could crack up. “Next time? Is right now.”

Cas is out of the shower with two hands on a towel before Dean can process what he’s— Well, fuck. “Dammit, Cas, wait!” He whips around, looking for the broken shower handle to turn the blasted thing off. 

“ _Now,_ Dean,” Cas insists, toweling off, and goddamn if he isn’t already sporting a hard on. Dean gets kinda mesmerized for a second, because Cas’s cock really is fucking pretty, but then Cas says, “It was your idea,” and okay, so he has a point. 

“Right. Yeah. Right.” He jams the handle of the goddamn stupid (blessed, beautiful) shower and jumps out of the tub just as Cas flings open the bathroom door, letting in a whoosh of cold air. “Cas!” he complains, struggling to get finally get his damn shirt all the way off. Cas tosses his towel at Dean’s head and laughs, which is obviously nine kinds of unfair, seeing as he’s not the one fighting with fucking wet cuffs. Ugh. 

As Dean yanks his hands finally free, Cas darts out the door. “Where’re you going? Get your ass back here!” Dean shouts, yanking his wet pants to his ankles. The bathroom is a mess—water and wet clothes everywhere, and no more dry towels either, damn it—but Dean shoves past all of it, drops his pants in a heap and stumbles through the door.

Cas is clearing his duffle bag and spare socks and Dean doesn’t care what else from the bed when he springs, tackles Cas, presses him into the mattress, their bodies wet but hey, still warm. 

“I was taking too long in the shower,” Cas deadpans, his eyes bright in Dean’s face. “Time to get a move on.” 

Dean chuckles and it occurs to him, as they kick down and under the covers, that they’ve spent the entire day soaked and this’ll be the driest they’ve been since leaving the room that morning. None of this day has gone according to plan, but as he settles between Cas’s spread knees and Cas pulls the sheet up over their heads, as Dean grinds down against him and Cas hums and grabs enthusiastically at Dean’s ass, all Dean can think is _Jesus fuck thank everything._

It's like it's always been here, waiting, this thing between he and Cas. But now Dean knows what he has.

His cock’s still soft and sensitive but Cas is definitely more than half hard. Which is awesome. “Whatchyou want, Cas?” he asks, biting the ridge of Cas’s shoulder. “Tell me, baby. I’ll do it. Do anything you want.” 

Cas does an impatient twisty thrusty thing with his hips that manages to make Dean’s cock twitch. “I want you to do what you promised. What you told me you wanted,” Cas huffs, but there’s a smirk he’s trying to keep off his face—one Dean can’t help but hand him right back.

“Really,” he says, nosing under Cas’s jaw. 

Cas wraps a hand in Dean’s hair and tugs, giving up a coy little shrug. “Or, you know,” he says, words rolling like a low rumble of thunder. “We could just . . . do what feels good.” 

Dean laughs, raises his head and nips at that broad, beautiful mouth until Cas opens for him, welcoming and wanting. “Yeah,” Dean murmurs. “You and me? I think we can do that.”

 

— end —


End file.
